


Fire and powder

by Builder



Series: Nat on Fire [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Eating Disorders, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 02:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17890070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: What did she think when she’d started the search?  That she’d find a little old woman cooking borscht and a man herding goats in the yard?  An urban apartment housing proud career people, her father a police detective and her mother a businesswoman?  Two spies hiding out in a hovel?  Or more likely, the type of parents who’d give their child up to the state as an infant.  Addicts, probably.  Or a prostitute and some anonymous white collar, her mother a nobody and her father an anybody.  Who knows if the man buried beside her had anything to do with Nat’s conception?  Not like it matters now, anyway.  It’s all just grey stone.  Grey, like the sick staring back at her, grey like the miserably clouded sky that makes for a throw-away Sunday.





	Fire and powder

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @builder051
> 
> EATING DISORDER TW
> 
> Though the theme is angst, not dysmorphia

Whoever invented ice cream must be the devil indeed, Nat thinks.  Sweet and silky going down and again coming up.  No food on the planet is as easy and pleasant to abuse.  She spits out a mouthful of milky saliva and reaches for the toilet paper.  The dregs of vomit soak the flimsy tissue, and Nat stares down at it with  morbid curiosity before dropping it on top of the mess in the porcelain bowl.  One would think the pink and blue of cotton candy ice cream would come back a soft lavender, but they don’t.  The come back grey and dreary.  Even the chemical tang of the artificial coloring seems stronger now. **  
**

Nat’s sinuses burn, and for a second she feels regret.  But then she remembers why she chose this one, the cheap store brand in the most atrocious flavor, and she heaves again without even putting her fingers down her throat.  If she’d wanted a treat, she’d have gone for the salted caramel Haagen Dazs.  It’s not like SHIELD pays her a fortune, but she’s not strapped for cash, either.  She could afford nicer things if she wanted them.  Like a bigger apartment with a toilet that doesn’t wobble.  The problem is that she doesn’t deserve them.  This isn’t a reward.  This is torture.

Nat retches, but it’s dry.  She’s empty, and it’s entirely too soon.  There’s still so much hurt inside her, hurt that  needs to come out.  She jams four fingers against her tongue and pushes until she tastes acid.  A splash of red appears mixed in with the yellow bile, creating swirls in the cloudy water.  “Fuck,” she mutters, spitting.  She should’ve known she was pushing too hard.  She should’ve stopped before she drew blood.  She’s never been much good at restraint, though.  

The thought of her last trip to Russia comes to mind before she can push it away, of the two lonely tombstones she’d found weathered and crumbling in a corner of chain link fence.  Under 20 years they’d been standing there, and already falling apart.  

What did she think when she’d started the search?  That she’d find a little old woman cooking borscht and a man herding goats in the yard?  An urban apartment housing proud career people, her father a police detective and her mother a businesswoman?  Two spies hiding out in a hovel?  Or more likely, the type of parents who’d give their child up to the state as an infant.  Addicts, probably.  Or a prostitute and some anonymous white collar, her mother a nobody and her father an anybody.  Who knows if the man buried beside her had anything to do with Nat’s conception?  Not like it matters now, anyway.  It’s all just grey stone.  Grey, like the sick staring back at her, grey like the miserably clouded sky that makes for a throw-away Sunday.

Nat has to work in the morning, but she still wishes she’d cut herself a little deeper with her terrible choices.  Downed a tub of popcorn and a bottle of vodka instead of a half-gallon of ice cream.  There’s alcohol in the cabinet under the kitchen sink, so she can imbibe if she still feels like it once she’s done evacuating her stomach lining.  Nat keeps a few bottles stashed alongside the bleach for nights just like this one, nights when she isn’t sure which concoction she’d rather sip on.  Pain, or death?  It’s a toss up.  Nat isn’t sure which she needs more.  For now she’d take her chances with both, equally.


End file.
